Raptus Regaliter
by Saucery
Summary: King Stilinski must offer his only son in marriage to the Hales, in order to end the war between humans and werewolves. Or, the one in which Stiles and Derek get gay-married. For world peace.
1. Chapter 1

****Notes:

The title is Latin for 'royally screwed'. I felt it was appropriate.

Oh, and in this alternate universe, werewolves can't actually 'turn' anyone with bites or scratches; they have to breed true.

Yeah. Breed.

I THINK YOU KNOW WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS.

* * *

**RAPTUS REGALITER**

**- I -**

* * *

Stiles wanders down to breakfast in his rattiest T-shirt, because a) it's comfy, b) it doesn't make him feel like an asshole in front of the far more humbly-dressed servants, and c) it makes Finstock, his etiquette coach, wig the fuck out. The last reason's the best one.

True to form, Finstock does his usual face-draining-of-blood and fists-curling-in-outrage routine as Stiles passes him in the hall. Score.

Stiles's dad is already at the table, reading glasses pushed down his nose as he peers at the morning paper. Stiles catches a glimpse of the headlines (_Fifth Day of Talks: Can We Make Peace with Beasts?_) and sighs.

"Yo, Dad," he says, and pours milk into his bowl of cereal before the butler can do it. The butler gives him the evil eye. "Uh. Another day with the furries?"

"Don't call them that," says Dad, automatically. He looks up at Stiles. "Son…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry. It's not politically correct. But they _are_ furry. That's sort of the point."

"That's not what I - all right, that's _also_ what I was going to say, but… the ministers and I have been discussing a new solution. A potential - a potential solution. If you're amenable."

_Amenable?_ Crap. Dad's using big words. King-words. Words he only uses when shit's about to hit the fan - and then possibly land on Stiles's face. The last time Dad had asked him if Stiles was _amenable_ to something was when Stiles had to do this PR stunt involving actual active duty in the military for, like, six months. It had ended up not being a stunt; when the werewolves broke through the front lines, it had been the genuine article. And Stiles had nearly gotten his flesh ripped off of him by a werewolf.

Stiles swallows.

Dad doesn't say anything further.

Hell, if Stiles ever gets into BDSM - which he probably won't, unless Lydia plans on becoming a leather queen - which, come to think of it, she _might_ - but if Stiles ever _does_ get into BDSM, 'amenable' will totally be his safe-word.

Wait. Thinking about BDSM with his dad right there is kind of weird.

Stiles pushes his bowl of cereal away. And buries his head in his arms.

"Right." Stiles knows that whatever this is, he's going to have to do it. And not just because his dad wants him to - Stiles knows very well that his dad doesn't _want_ Stiles to ever do anything dangerous; it's just that duty forces his hand. But Stiles is going to have to do this - whatever it is - because the _people_ need it.

Back then, the people had needed to see that their prince wasn't some lily-livered coward hiding away from the war, with no idea of what the soldiers were facing on the front. Despite the nightmares Stiles still gets about the whole debacle (claws catching like hooks on the meat of his thigh; fangs gleaming in the moonlight), he doesn't regret it. He _did_ gain a whole new appreciation for the freaky shit soldiers have to put up with everyday. Stiles had only had to do it for six months; the folks in the military have to do it for _years_. He's frankly surprised everyone hasn't gone batshit with perpetual terror. It's a testament to how brave they are.

"Fine." Stiles lifts his head and meets his father's eyes. "Good. What can I do?"

Dad clears his throat. He looks proud and a little misty-eyed, and also strangely _sad_, which - what? "You can get married."

Stiles's jaw drops.

"I… realize that this is sudden. You don't have to make a decision today. And - I won't force you to do it. You know I never will. If - if you have someone else that you've already promised yourself to, then, of course, marrying into the Hales will not be an option. I'd never ask you to betray an oath. But if you're willing to do this, it might give us an out. Er, if the Hales are also willing, that is. Which they may not be, so this entire discussion might be moot."

"You. You want me to. Marry? A _werewolf_?"

"One of the First Pack, yes."

What. _What._ What even - Stiles won't survive the _wedding night_. Those creatures _eat people_ - Stiles has seen it first-hand. Heck, he still has deep scarring in his thigh to remind him that, yeah, fangs really _are_ that sharp.

Then again, this isn't any different from fighting on the front lines, and - and there are soldiers who do that, aren't there? Thousands of soldiers, even. Sixteen-thousand, fourteen-hundred and twenty-three people, by the most recent reports, which Stiles reads because he'd be a jackass if he didn't keep track of the people fighting and _dying_ to protect his country - to protect_him_.

What's he done, in return? Well, okay, he's eighteen, a barely-old-enough-to-vote teenager, so he's only just begun participating in the legislative process. And while he's been quietly trying to get a new Veterans' Care Bill passed, nobody expects him to contribute meaningfully. Yet.

But this is a chance for him to contribute. Meaningfully. Sure, he'll basically be selling his ass to a furry, but so what? It's not any scarier than what the men and women in the armed services have to do each day. Stiles is a dweeb - not lying - but he doesn't like to think of himself as a complete wimp. Or a, a spoiled prince. That's something he's always tried _not_ to be.

"Which one is it?" Stiles draws in a breath. "Which Hale?"

"Well, it's either Laura - "

"The _Alpha_? You want me to - the _Alpha_?"

" - or her brother, Derek."

"A dude. Um. I don't, actually, swing that way. Much."

Dad raises an eyebrow.

Stiles flushes. "Okay. Okay, so - fine. We'll just agree that I'm a sexual pendulum."

Dad looks _appalled_.

"Aaaaand we're gonna forget I ever said that. Moving on. Me, the wolf-bride. Married to werewolf royalty. Either their _queen_, which would make me their - not their king, more like their _bitch_ - "

"Stiles - "

"Nah, let me get my freakout outta the way, this is a _good_ thing - or their prince, which would make me their, um, I don't even know. And that'll make them stop the war."

Dad rubs his fingers across his forehead. He looks tired. Stiles feels something in his stomach twist; he hates seeing that expression on his dad's face, like he's been defeated, or is so close to it that it doesn't matter. "We hope it will. They - the werewolves never harm pack. That's their iron-clad rule."

"And if I marry into their family, then I'm… pack? And you're pack. And this entire kingdom is pack."

"Well. By extension. Mostly, just the royal family, but - it'll help. It'll assure them that we don't want a war, either."

"A lot of our right-wingers _do_ want war, though. I mean, they're nutcases, but - "

"Yes." Dad sighs. "Yes, they are. We need to - we need to silence them. We need to make war an impossibility, both for the wolves and ourselves."

"Because if we don't, people are going to keep dying."

Dad reaches out to lay a hand on top of Stiles's. "Son."

Stiles quirks a grin. "Dad."

They stare at each other.

Finally, Stiles says: "I get it. I - I want it. I want _peace_, for all of us, and - if this is something I can do, then I should… do it."

"'Should.' You - you don't have to agree now, or - or ever, son. This may be one of our best options, but it isn't our only option. We could - "

"Screw that, it totally is our only option. You'd never let me go if you had a choice."

Dad _flinches_.

"You wouldn't even be sitting here talking to me about it. It's." Stiles blinks. Several times. Just blinking - no crying, no 'moistening of the eyes,' fuck that. He can do this. "It's okay, Dad. I understand."

But that only makes his dad slump, as if a horrible weight has settled on his shoulders. "Part of me had hoped you'd say no, even though I knew you wouldn't. I don't… I don't want to see you go. To them."

Stiles can feel his mouth stretching in a tight, grim smile. "I know. But still. We took an oath, right?"

"Serve and protect," Dad murmurs.

Stiles nods. "Serve and protect."

Neither of them ends up eating breakfast, that day.

Or the next, by which time the werewolves have accepted their proposal - for the Hale prince.

Shit.

* * *

Lydia's kind of a jerkface about the whole thing, but that's how she shows she cares. Maybe. Hopefully. If leaving pamphlets lying around about dog-care and flea treatments and canine mating habits and _knotting_ is supposed to be moral support, then she's supporting the hell out of him. She's the only duchess - well, inheriting duchess - that can say the word 'knotting' on-camera with a straight face.

Danny's more sympathetic, until he sees a picture of Derek Hale, and then he's, like, _weird_. And keeps asking Stiles to send back photos. Which, seriously? _Seriously?_ Stiles tries to explain to him that it's highly likely that the Lord of the Abs is gonna turn into a giant carnivorous furball during sex, and that Stiles will subsequently _die_, but Danny just says something along the lines of 'what a way to go,' except in Danny-speak, which means it's wordy and deadpan and vaguely smirky.

Damn them all.

Oh, all right, so they're just trying to get him to lighten up before Doomsday, but what Stiles could really use is some nice goodbye sex. From either of them. Or possibly both of them. At the same time. But it's not happening, because Lydia's just gotten engaged to the douchebag that is Earl Whittemore, and Danny's found his one true love, or whatever.

It's been approximately three millennia since Stiles last got laid. Well. One year and two months. Which is almost the same thing. He's only ever been with Danny and Lydia - and that one girl whose name he still feels guilty about not remembering from one of Lord Rutherford's parties - and it's not like he could've gotten any during his six-month stint as a soulja boy, either. (The prince, fraternizing? Not a good idea. Plus, he'd have felt freaky about potentially coercing anyone by outranking them. Just. No.)

So, it's been a while since he got down and dirty. He hopes to hell that what people say is true, and that having sex is like riding a bicycle, because if his dick can't remember what to do on his wedding night, the treaty will be null and void.

Then again, he'll probably piss himself in fear on his wedding night, so unless his werewolf husband's into golden showers, the treaty will be null and void, anyway.

Fuck.

Or - or not. He's not going to think about fucking. Let alone fucking massive, murderous beasts that _eat people_, Jesus Christ, what even is his life? Why'd he have to go and be all noble? Why does everyone have to look at him like he's a hero? A very doomed, very tragic hero? That makes it so that he has to live _up_ to their expectations, and screw it, he has enough expectations of _himself_. Not even counting all the doom and tragedy. Which, yeah. Is pretty much a fact.

Sometimes, Stiles catches himself hyperventilating, and then he does the sensible thing and sits down. And stares into space.

He's going to be meeting Derek Hale in three days. The ceremony's in four.

Whatever. The least Stiles can do is finalize the Veterans' Care Bill before he goes. He won't leave work undone.

* * *

Two days later, the parliament passes the Veterans' Care Bill. With a minimum of fuss. Even the right-wingers don't do their usual song-and-dance with ridiculous pie-charts with made-up figures.

It's depressing. It's _great_, but it's depressing. Because it's like the legislative equivalent of a pity fuck. They'll give Stiles what he wants before he disappears into the mists of darkness.

Great.

* * *

Stiles is meeting his werehusband tomorrow, and is distantly contemplating the idea of single-handedly inventing cloning technology that'll allow him to send a convincing body double instead of himself, but sadly, Stiles isn't a genius, and also, all anyone seems to care about is what Stiles will _wear_.

Finstock's in ecstasies over the wedding outfit. Or maybe he's in agonies; Stiles can't actually tell the difference. He stops trying to. He's poked and prodded and measured by what feels like the ten million hands of one of those Hindu deities, because Finstock's army of seamstresses and tailors really is that handsy. Stiles isn't sure he can complain about his ass being groped if it's for a legitimate reason.

Not that fashion is _ever_ a legitimate reason. For anything. (Except maybe Lydia's outfits.) If people keep pushing Stiles around and into and out of scratchy, uncomfortable clothing, he's going to have to choke a bitch. (That isn't Lydia.)

He doesn't care what Finstock says; he's only going to take his T-shirts and jeans with him into the Wildlands. It'll still be way better than anything those flea-bitten mutts have lying around.

"Do not disdain the very people you are joining by marriage," Finstock chides him, for definitions of 'chide' that include 'barely comprehensible bellowing'.

"Yeah, sure. Because what I'm worried about is offending fangy machines of death. Oh, wait. _I am._ Look, I'm not gonna - "

"Going. To," Finstock enunciates.

"I'm not _gonna_ do anything that'll get me killed any sooner than I absolutely have to be, okay?"

For a second, Finstock looks upset - like, genuinely upset, in a human way, rather than in a scandalized-anthropomorphic-tank-with-twelve-artillery-guns way. "You will not be killed."

Stiles takes pity on him, and pats him on the arm. "Yeah. So, how 'bout them ruffles?"

And Finstock's off.

The ruffles, unfortunately, are on. Damn it.


	2. Chapter 2

**RAPTUS REGALITER**

**- II -**

* * *

It's the day he meets Derek Hale.

Derek, Beta of the First Pack. Second only to Laura Hale in both seniority and, it's rumored, bloodthirstiness. He's one of the main reasons the humans haven't been able to win this war; the humans have the firepower, but the werewolves have the_super_powers, and it's powers like Derek's that can lead to the indiscriminate slaughter of human troops.

Derek's a confirmed killer.

Then again, so is Stiles - he _did_ shoot and kill the werewolf that had tried to make an after-dinner mint out of him - but his kill-count of one doesn't hold a candle to Derek's kill-count of… however many. The thought of having to sleep with - and eventually bear the children _of_ - a mass murderer is something that turns Stiles's stomach.

Then again, everything's turning Stiles's stomach, right about now. The fancy drapes over the mantelpiece are turning his stomach. The little baskets of sweetmeats are turning his stomach. The light glinting off the perfectly polished china is turning his stomach. His _stomach_ is turning his stomach. His digestive system's trying to eat itself. Snake swallowing its own tail. The whole deal. Jesus, Stiles is turning into an ancient symbol for death and rebirth. By the time the wedding rolls around, Derek Hale will be marrying a hieroglyph. A - a _fossil_. A souvenir from the Pleistocene.

God, he's such a dork. Geek. Gork. Deek?

Holy shit. He's totally going to talk his new husband into killing him. And he won't even be _trying_. …Much.

"You're looking great," Dad tells him, which is utterly superfluous and also useless, insofar as sartorial commentary goes, because Dad thinks he looks great in anything, including the diapers in those photos from when Stiles was, like, two years old.

"Thanks." Stiles gulps. "I'm going to puke."

"No. No, you won't," says Dad. "Um. Please don't?" Which is absolute hypocrisy, because Dad seems like he's on the verge of puking, _too_.

"Where's Prime Minister Chen?" Stiles tries not to fidget in his too-tight waistcoat. A _waistcoat_, for fuck's sake, Stiles is traumatized enough as it is.

"She's with the greeting party."

"Oh. Is Laura coming, too?"

"The Alpha isn't coming, no. That… wouldn't be a strategically sound decision. For them."

"Is that why they're marrying me off to her brother, instead? 'Cause they can't risk sending their Alpha?"

"Maybe. Or maybe the Beta volunteered."

Stiles _snorts_.

Dad frowns. "Stiles - "

"No, uh-huh, I can see that. Yep. Derek Hale. Volunteering to marry a human. The guy's known for hating our guts, Dad. Or just, y'know, _stringing them up_. I bet he strings guts up like streamers."

Dad's about to say something - but then the footman announces the arrival of Derek of the Hales, Beta of the First Pack, Prince of the Wildlands, General of the Fourth and the Fifth Divisions of the Were Nation, and Dad… switches personalities. Just like that.

By the time the door's being opened, Stiles's dad is gone, and King Stilinski's in his place, instead. Calm. Regal. _Certain._ Not like a father being forced to feed his son to the wolves.

The king stands - presumably to greet their guest - but Stiles's butt has sort of metamorphosed itself into a wax tablet of abject horror, and he's stuck to his seat.

"Son," his dad mutters, from behind the laminated mask of kingship, and reaches down to haul him up.

Stiles is standing by the time Derek Hale enters the room. Not that he'd call it 'standing'. It feels more like 'teetering'. On the edge of a precipice. There's even vertigo, and everything. If he looks down, he's sure he'll see thousands of feet of sheer cliff-face, plummeting downward into a never-ending night.

But he can't look down. Or indulge in pointless melodrama.

So he looks straight ahead, and sweats in his fine silk suit, and tries not to shit himself.

Derek Hale is -

Derek Hale.

_Is._

He just _is_.

There's no adjective to adequately describe him. Honestly. Stiles's brain fails to come up with anything from its impressive reservoir of trash-talking, doubled-edged compliments. Which is a historic event, equal almost in significance to the marriage of a human prince to a werewolf.

There are only two coherent words that spring to mind when Stiles is confronted with Derek, and they are:

Leather. Jacket.

Leather _jacket_. The guy's - the guy's dressed like a goddamn _bikie_, and Stiles has to put up with this flower-power bullshit? What the fuck even is wrong with the world, that Stiles has to wear a perfumed cravat that's choking him like an artfully ruffled, salmon-pink noose, but his husband-to-be is allowed to wear something nic - uh, comfortable?

Yeah. Clothing. He's going to think about it. And that's _all_ he's going to think about. He's going to borrow a page from both Finstock's and Lydia's books (their rule-books, not their black-books; they'd kill Stiles before he ever got close to _those_) - when in doubt, become a diva.

Except that diva-Stiles _can_ come up with adjectives, and they're all uniformly horrible. Adjectives like… huge. Muscular._Monolithic_. Herculean. God help him. Derek Hale is a barbarian Yeti with hands so big that diva-Stiles seriously hopes they aren't indicative of the size of his _dick_, because that way lies the wonderful world of anal fissures.

Stiles's tongue unsticks itself from the roof of his mouth.

"Um. Hi," he says, which is _not_ the painfully complex official greeting he was _supposed_ to give, but. Uh.

Derek's eyes swing to him and, and _pin_ him. Like the tips of two blue, poison-tipped spears.

Stiles… doesn't stumble back. That would be bad form. And he doesn't want to make it _that_ obvious that he's scared shitless. So he just keeps smiling - like a loon, probably - and doesn't look away from Derek.

Problem is, Derek isn't looking away, either.

It takes the better part of two minutes for Stiles to realize that they're having a staring contest. Is that normal? That isn't normal, is it? People who're about to marry each other _are_ supposed to gaze soulfully into each others' eyes, but this… isn't soulful. At all. It's more soul-_destroying_ than anything. It's like the space between him and Derek is a rabbit hole, and Stiles's soul is falling down it. Screaming. Alice in Horrorland.

Dad decides to intervene with proper, officious-sounding nonsense that neither Derek nor Stiles pays any real attention to. "We welcome you to the Land of Men, Son of Wolves. The king of Beacon Hills is honored to host the prince of the Wildlands."

Derek doesn't reply. He just yanks out his chair and sprawls on it - which, technically, the chair was _supposed_ to have been pulled back by the butler, but the butler's currently flattened to the wall, like a cartoon character, an expression of naked terror on his face. Hell, at this rate, Stiles wouldn't be surprised if the cutlery ran away, too. The dish would be totally justified in running away with the spoon.

Prime Minister Chen slinks around the edge of the table and sits down, as well.

Dad and Stiles follow suit. The most senior in rank are the last to sit, but Stiles doesn't do anything as dignified as 'sitting'; he just collapses.

Nobody seems to know what to say, which is ridiculous, because everyone - except Derek, maybe - has been thoroughly prepped about what to say and when.

Finally, Derek speaks, and it isn't a voice so much as it's a thunderous _rumble_, like a storm-front moving in across the plains. "I am not attracted to cubs."

Stiles _gapes_.

"I was told to mate with the human prince. But I wasn't told that he was a child."

"I'm not - !"

"My son is over the age of consent, among humans," says Dad, all calm and kingly, again, even if his tone is subtly strained. "He is eighteen years of age."

A disbelieving sneer curls Derek's mouth. Stiles tries not to stare at his fangs. "He looks all of thirteen."

"Hey!" Stiles splutters.

"He smells like a virgin."

Like a - "Well, I'm not," Stiles snaps, and then _blushes_ when his Dad fixes him with a warning glare. Shit. He wasn't supposed to say that. Maybe werewolves like their brides virginal. Maybe it's all over, already.

"Aren't you," says Derek, and it isn't even a question. "And yet you smell of nothing but your own semen."

Stiles _twitches_. He can't literally sink into the ground in humiliation, but if he starts digging now, maybe he'll be able to bury himself in dirt before the hour's up.

So he jerked off last night. Big deal. He couldn't have _slept_ if he hadn't calmed himself down, somehow, and jerking off's about the best way to do it.

Once the rest of the table's recovered from its collective, scandalized silence, Minister Chen decides to speak. She does kind of waver, though. "We would like to confirm your Alpha's agreement to the contract as drawn up by our ministers and our king."

"Your human contracts are meaningless. Ink is nothing. Blood is everything."

Dad's jaw clenches. "Nevertheless, we require - "

"It is done," Derek says, so dismissively that it makes Stiles wanna throttle him, the smug bastard. "An Omega will deliver the contract by sundown."

Both Dad and Minister Chen relax, visibly. "Then," Chen continues, "we have your commitment to this marriage?"

Derek's eyes flick to Stiles; they're filled with such cold, indifferent _scorn_ that Stiles flinches. "Yes."

"Is your commitment voluntary?" Dad presses.

"My Alpha commands me. I obey."

Ouch. Stiles knows he isn't the prettiest fish in the barrel, but, fuck. Way to feel unwanted. Even though he'd expected this, and, to be fair, it's not like _he_ wants Derek, either. Other than his body, all right, so maybe Danny was right about the aesthetic appeal, but the guy's a _werewolf_ and a killer and also obviously a douche, so. It's not like Stiles is into him. Or will ever be into him.

"And yet, for a Beta, obedience is still voluntary," Dad points out.

Derek meets his gaze steadily. "Yes."

"Therefore, you will not mistreat my son. You will protect my son from all that seek to harm him. You will stand by him, and be faithful to him, as per the laws of both our lands."

That horrid sneer is back on Derek's face. "We of the moon always mate for life. It is you, of the earth, who are fickle."

Dad studies him. "Not all of us."

Derek… actually glances away, for a second, and Stiles figures that Derek's probably heard of King Stilinski's undying love for his wife, and his refusal to take another queen, after her passing, despite the pressures of the court. "I know," he says, quietly. "I did not intend to insult your mate."

It's such a shock to hear a non-douchey sentence that it takes Stiles a while to compute it. So, werewolves take the whole 'mate' thing seriously, enough that they won't insult another person's mate - even another _human's_ mate. Then again, Derek has no problems insulting his _own_ mate - or mate-to-be - so Stiles should avoid building his expectations up, too much.

"It is well, then, that you will keep my son under your protection, for life, and that you will never abandon him to the… mercies of the other wolves."

"A mauled mate is a mate incapable of bearing children. I will not let him come to harm."

Cold comfort. Stiles is just a baby-making machine, then, is he? Still, whatever keeps him alive has gotta be a good thing, even though Stiles isn't planning on making any werebabies for at least another couple years. He is _not_ gonna be a teen mom. Just imagining what the tabloids would say gives him the creeps.

"See to it," Dad says. "Those were the terms of the contract, in any case, but I wanted to hear you affirm them, in person."

Derek inclines his head. "Consider them affirmed."

"Excellent! That is all to the good," says Minister Chen, with a desperately cheerful, half-terrified smile. "I hope you'll enjoy the ceremony, tomorrow."

Derek's lips twist in distaste. "I don't understand the need for such frippery. A mate is a mate."

"Yes, well. It's how we humans celebrate such occasions. You'll enjoy it, I'm sure."

Stiles is sure that Derek _won't_ enjoy it, but, hey, it's not like Stiles is gonna enjoy it, either. What with wolfish defloration happening at the end. Death by defloration. Oh, god. Not that Stiles's flower hasn't already been plucked, but - Derek will rip it out from the _roots_.

"Will there be food?" Derek asks, abruptly.

Everyone gawks at him.

"Ah. Yes? There will be rather a lot of food," Minister Chen says.

"I don't mean human food," Derek replies, with disgust. "I mean _meat_. Raw meat."

Stiles… fights down a sudden surge of bile. He's going to have to bone this guy after watching him eat a _dead cow_? He's going to have to _kiss that mouth_? Okay, no kissing. No kissing, _at all_. Unless Stiles can manage to procure industrial-strength mouthwash from somewhere. And a retcon. To wipe his own memory with. Fuck.

"Yes, there - there have been provisions. Made." The minister sounds like she's about to faint. Dad just looks stoic. Damn him.

"Good. I will be leaving with my mate, the following morning, and must be well-fed."

Dad lifts a fist to his chest in the traditional gesture of a promise, while Stiles's heart sinks at the reminder that by the day after tomorrow, he'll be leaving home. Forever. "We will do all that is necessary, and all that you request."

_I request that I be allowed to run away to the circus_, Stiles doesn't say, even though he sort of wants to cry and throw up and pass out at the same time.

But then, Derek gives him this _look_, like he can smell every single one of Stiles's thoughts on him, and that makes Stiles sit up and straighten his shoulders. Screw it; he's not a _cub_. He can handle this. It's just a state marriage. Every single prince since the dawn of time has had a state marriage. Granted, never to a ravening wolf-monster, but… there's always a first. At least the wedding night won't be Stiles's first. He doesn't want his knowledge of sexuality limited to being torn to bloody shreds.

"Perhaps you'd like to spend some time alone with each other, now?" Minister Chen asks, hopefully. Traitor. It's clear that all she wants is to escape to the ladies' washroom and have a retroactive panic attack in peace. Not that Stiles can even blame her for that. Heck, _he_ wants to hide out in a washroom, too. Preferably a washroom in outer space. In another galaxy. Far, far away.

"No," Stiles croaks, but he's drowned out by Derek's far more resonant voice.

"That is unnecessary. I have nothing to say to him."

"Same here," says Stiles, nettled. Yeah, why would anyone want to say two words to the person they're about to _marry_? Stupid, right?

"Then all is settled." Dad stands up and extends his hand. "We thank you, again, for your visit."

Derek's hackles go _up_ in a way that shouldn't be possible on a human face with, like, a human bone structure, but then, his face isn't human, is it? "Don't touch me," he growls, and Dad lowers his hand.

"Noted. What of my son?"

"He is… permitted." Derek doesn't seem very pleased at the prospect, which, yeah, Stiles isn't, either. He isn't even going to _try_to touch Derek until he absolutely has to; he doesn't want to get his entire arm bitten off.

And then, without making any formal farewell to any of them or even sketching a bow, Derek is _gone_, flinging the door open and striding out, and Stiles is just sitting there, shell-shocked and seething and filled with a bitter, acrid emotion that he can't even_identify_, but that borrows heavily from resentment and rage.

Great. He's getting married. To a neanderthal. That eats people. And hates him. What could possibly go wrong?


End file.
